Piz Walks into a Bar
by Jensine70
Summary: About a year after the movie, Wallace goes to NYC to visit Piz for a few days. The first night he's there, they go to a local bar to hear some live music. Wallace plays encourager/wingman as a woman shows interest in Piz. Rom-com (Piz/OC) with a side of buddy comedy. ONE-SHOT. Piz POV.


DISCLAIMER: Characters of Veronica Mars, any recognizable dialogue, and the canon events of their storyline belong to Rob Thomas.

A/N:

Another short fic pulled from my "ideas folder." My original document was dated 2014, so I must have felt bad for him after seeing the movie.

I always liked Piz. Always knew that he and Veronica wouldn't work out, but I liked the character. He deserved a happy ending.

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Set about a year after the movie. No changes to canon.

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**Piz POV**

It's a Thursday night, which means live music at the quirky little bar a few blocks from my apartment. Checking out new music – or at least new to me – is part of my job. It just so happens that my college roommate is in town visiting, so going out tonight is both business and pleasure.

Wallace finds us a table while I go over to the bar to get our first drinks of the night. While I wait for the bartender to take my order, I cannot help but notice the woman sitting at the end of the bar, about 20 feet from me. She looks around the room, but then makes eye contact with me over the rim of her wine glass the next time she takes a drink. Even if she is the kind of woman I could have a conversation with, there is no way that would happen in this setting. I have never been comfortable doing the singles thing in a bar – you know, trying to "pick someone up."

Besides … the way she is looking around, she is probably waiting for her husband or boyfriend, who likely is capable of beating me senseless. Been down that road before. Then, I took the road less traveled and it has made all the difference. I have not had my face beaten to a bloody pulp since college, when my then-girlfriend's ex-boyfriend decided that I had done something despicable to her and it was his duty to defend her honor. The truth of the matter was that I did not do what he thought I did, but he did not stop to ask. That scenario has made me cautious when it comes to women who may have psychotic boyfriends or ex-boyfriends.

This woman sitting at the bar is beautiful. If I had to judge her based on her sophisticated appearance and the fact that she is drinking wine, I would guess that she is intelligent and refined. More than likely, my "type." While I'm waiting for our drinks, she and I trade glances and smiles. However, I can not bring myself to take the risk of going over to talk to her.

Wallace shakes his head at me while taking his drink from my hand. "Come on, man. Why didn't you talk to her? Looks to me like she's interested in you."

"Wallace, just once can we go to a bar without you hassling me about this particular topic."

"No, roomie. Apparently not."

A few minutes later, the woman is walking by our table and stops next to Wallace. She leans toward him and says, "You should tell your friend that was a missed opportunity. Too many of those, and you end up with regrets. But I'm guessing that you and he have had that conversation before."

A moment later, Wallace elbows me and points up toward the stage. The woman is now standing center stage in front of a microphone. For the next 45 minutes, we listen to this band – one of the reasons I came here tonight. Their sound does not easily fit into any one genre. It changes from song to song, and a variety of influences are layered within any given song. I find myself wondering why I haven't heard of them before. All the band members are skilled, but the thing that has me mesmerized is the voice of the raven-haired beauty with whom I was exchanging smiles earlier. They finish their set and the emcee informs us that a solo act will be performing during the band's twenty-minute break.

During the break, I wander back to the merchandise table to pick up a cd and find myself face to face with her again. She seems to be waiting for me to say something, but all I can do is awkwardly smile at her and then glance down at my feet as I shift my weight. I think I manage to mumble "nice show" as I turn to go.

A few minutes after I sit down next to Wallace, she sits down and asks him, "So, is there some trick to getting him to talk?" After Wallace chuckles, more at me than at her, she continues, "I mean, does he have a wife? A girlfriend? A boyfriend? Some reason he would not be interested in talking to a woman in a bar. Don't get me wrong, I prefer the gentlemanly approach over the typical line-slinging. However, it is also my preference to be pursued, rather than do the pursuing. At least a little effort to show interest … I mean, if the guy happens to dazzle me with his conversational prowess, then so be it."

She turns to look at me as Wallace clears his throat and excuses himself from the table.

After a few seconds of silence she finally introduces herself as Alessandra, adding that her friends called her Sandra. While we chat, she manages to extract some information from me – like the fact that I work at a radio station, including which station and when I'm on the air.

About fifteen minutes after she sat down, she says, "Well, it's time for our second set. I'll say goodnight now, because I need to leave as soon as I'm finished. I have to be up first thing in the morning."

"Early flight?" I ask.

"No, an appointment. But then I'm free the rest of the day and I'm not heading home for a couple days." She pauses and reaches across the table to pick up my phone. After typing for a few seconds, she hands it back, telling me to call the number she just entered. When I do as instructed, her phone rings. "If you want, you can give me a call tomorrow. Or you could talk to me as you are entering the studio."

"What?!"

Getting up from the table, she says, "My appointment tomorrow morning is an on-air interview with Malcolm something … who I believe has the time slot before you." She winks at me and then walks up to the stage.

Returning to the table, Wallace says, "So … it looked to me like that went well."

When she finishes her last song, I text her: "I enjoyed getting to talk with you tonight and am looking forward to seeing you in the morning. Sleep well. Goodnight."

She's chatting with someone while walking back to the dressing rooms. I see her check her phone and she turns to look back toward our table. Then, she texts: "One of the best evenings I've had in a while. See you tomorrow."

Not long after that, Wallace and I head home. After all, I do have to work in the morning. Tomorrow will be Wallace's last night in town since his flight leaves Saturday afternoon.

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My alarm goes off a little earlier than normal. I have an unusually good reason for getting to work early. When I stop at my favorite coffee shop, the barista asks why I'm grinning this particular day. I do not even try to explain that for the first time in a long time, I have met someone who might be worth all the trouble that seems to come with being in a relationship.

It is strange seeing her again at the radio station. She hangs around talking to my coworkers until my lunch break. While eating at a little café around the corner from the station, we chat about a number of things, but the primary topic of conversation is making plans for the weekend. As she gets into a cab to head back to her hotel, I'm still trying to figure what has just happened. Walking back to work, I find myself shaking my head in disbelief.

I spend that evening with Wallace, who kept himself busy sightseeing while I was at work. Now, he wants details about my lunch date – he puts emphasis on the word "date." And he's wondering why I'm spending Friday evening with him and not the beautiful singer.

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The next morning, Wallace and I have breakfast at a nearby diner before he heads for the airport to fly home. As soon as he and I part ways, I head for Sandra's hotel.

We spend the entire day together. Shopping, stopping in candy stores and bakeries to sample delicious goodies, walking in a few of the small parks in Manhattan, finally eating dinner at a restaurant that happens to be halfway between her hotel and my apartment. As I'm paying the check, she comments that she's not ready for the night to end. But she doesn't say anything else.

We walk down the sidewalk hand-in-hand while I try to figure out what to do with what she has said. About half an hour later, I finally say to her, "I could invite you back to my apartment, or if you'd be more comfortable, we could …" My voice trails off as I try to read her eyes.

She stops walking and hails a cab. When we get in, she gives the cabbie the address to her hotel.

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One of the best nights of my life, but that's all you'll get out of me. I'm not generally one to kiss and tell.

We spend all day Sunday together. A lazy morning in bed that included room service. And more sex.

In the afternoon, we go back to my place so I can change clothes before we go out to dinner. It is another lovely evening, but bittersweet, as she has to catch a late flight home.

As she gets into the cab to head for the airport, I ask, "So, how often do you get to the city? Or even the East Coast?"

She replies, "I haven't really had an excuse to make frequent trips … but if I did have an excuse, it wouldn't be difficult to arrange regular trips."

"What would qualify as a worthwhile excuse?"

She lowers her gaze and smiles. "If you have to ask, then you haven't been paying close enough attention."

I really must pay closer attention.

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A/N:

As I usually do with things that are pulled from my "ideas folder" … I'm posting it as a one-shot and marking it complete, but there's always the possibility that my imagination comes up with a way to continue it.

New chapter of "We Used to Trade Favors" went up at the same time as this.

Thanks for reading.

Until next time …

~Jen


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